


Playing Nurse

by thorsodinsn



Category: Mob City
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:10:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3403226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorsodinsn/pseuds/thorsodinsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A harsh cough pulls Ned’s attention away from the messy bed. He turns and sees a stream of light spilling out beneath the bathroom door, snaking around a shifting shadow. The hinges squeak when he pushes at the door, frown deepening when he’s greeted by Joe’s rounded, shaking shoulders. He’s hunched over the toilet bowl, one arm hugging the damn thing, his dress shirt unbuttoned and slipping away from one shoulder." || Ned stumbles upon a very sick Joe and takes it upon himself to take care of him. || Joe/Ned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Nurse

                The lights are on—not _unusual_ , unless you’re looking for Joe Teague. His punctuality is astounding; you won’t catch the man lagging by even an eighth of a second. Hell, a fourth would have him wringing his hands with worry. His routine is set in stone. It’s up and out of bed, it’s dressed and downing coffee, it’s coat and hat and out the door. There’s no deviation unless the job calls for it, and even then he’s still a stickler for the basics. Maybe he adjusts himself by an hour, but the ritual is always the same. It’s foolproof. It’s _Joe_.

                And Joe never, ever leaves without turning out the lights. Ned checks his watch once more, wondering if perhaps he’s the one that’s wrong, but the little ticking hands don’t lie. Frowning, he shuts the door behind himself and calls out the cop’s name. “Joe?”

                The silence presses on. He wanders further into the apartment. The bedroom door is swung open, yellow light pouring into the hall. Ned hurries towards it, peeks inside the find the bed empty and the sheets wrinkled and tangled, the comforter on the floor. There is no trace of the military precision Joe is known for; red flags left and right.

                A harsh cough pulls Ned’s attention away from the messy bed. He turns and sees a stream of light spilling out beneath the bathroom door, snaking around a shifting shadow. The hinges squeak when he pushes at the door, frown deepening when he’s greeted by Joe’s rounded, shaking shoulders. He’s hunched over the toilet bowl, one arm hugging the damn thing, his dress shirt unbuttoned and slipping away from one shoulder.

                “Joe,” Ned says, but Joe doesn’t hear him judging by the way he jerks when Ned rests a hand on his shoulder, tired eyes shooting up to meet his. “Hey, easy. It’s just me.”

                Ned kneads at Joe’s muscles, lowering himself down to his knee as he feels tension uncoil beneath his fingers. “Easy,” he repeats, rubbing his friend’s back as Joe’s head turns to heave. “Easy.” He waits until Joe’s done, fingers working at trembling muscles until Joe’s body sags beneath his touch. “Alright. C’mon, you’re good.”

                Ned squeezes his shoulder one more time before crossing the room to the sink. The quiet is broken briefly by the flush of the toilet and the rush of the tap before Ned offers water to Joe. “So, tell me. What are we purging?”

                Joe merely shakes his head. He takes a swig of water, swishes it around in his mouth and spits into the toilet bowl. His breath is heavy. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, his neck, and beading on his chest. There are deep purple bruises under his eyes, which in themselves look dazed and damn-near dead. Worry swells in Ned’s chest as he really looks at him, really takes in the full atrocity of his features.

                “Gunny?” His heart skips a beat when Joe fails to look at him. His shirt sleeve is halfway down his arm, the fabric wrinkling the longer it stays there. A tie is draped around his neck, only half of it threaded through his collar. “Gunny?” Ned says again, louder.

                “Hm?” Joe grunts, finally meeting his eyes.

                “You weren’t going to work like this,” Ned says matter-of-factly. He knows the answer, of course, but even so he reaches down to tug the tie away and toss it to the tiled floor. Joe furrows his brow. His hands move slow to try to swat Ned’s away. “Stop it,” Ned says firmly. Joe scowls, but his hands fall away and Ned is able to ease his shirt off him. “Come here.”

                Ned gently takes Joe’s arm, easing it over his own shoulders. Joe’s legs shake under him and Ned pauses a moment to let him get his footing. “Ned—“ Joe tries, but Ned’s already moving, easing him in a slow shuffle across the hall.

                “Don’t say it,” Ned tells him. “Don’t tell me you’re fine.”

                He deposits Joe onto the bed and busies himself with getting the thick comforter off the floor.

                “Ned,” Joe says again. “Come on, really. Don’t waste your time.”

                “Lay down,” Ned replies, brushing Joe’s protests away.

                “Ned,” Joe repeats. He’s sitting slumped, his posture forgotten in his misery; that disturbs Ned all the more. Whatever bug is coursing through him has temporarily erased all the things that make him Joe Teague. He seems small, and weak, and something next to helpless, and if Ned has to see him look like this a second more than he has to then he’s pretty sure _he’ll_ be sick.

                “Joe, please,” he says. “If you could see you, you’d be throwing your guts up again. I can’t believe you were going to go to _work_ like this. Just lay down, okay? You’re taking off. You’re gonna rest. Don’t make me strap you to that fucking bed, man, because I will.”

                The little smile that pulls at his friend’s mouth sets his nerves at ease. Joe huffs a slight laugh, though it turns to a cough at the end and has Ned hurrying to gently knead Joe’s shoulder until the fit passes. “Gunny. Down.”

                “Yes, nurse,” Joe scoffs in a tone that makes Ned wants to deck him. He knows he can’t complain, though, because Joe is stretching himself along the mattress and letting him drape a blanket over him. Ned settles on the edge of the bed, running his fingers gently through Joe’s hair before lacing fingers with Joe’s.

                “You should sleep,” he tells him, squeezing his hand.

                “Yes, nurse,” Joe says again. It’s Ned’s turn to scoff, and he carefully brushes his thumb over the back of his friend’s hand. Joe’s eyes slip shut. His breath is still labored, but slowly he relaxes. When Ned thinks he’s just about asleep, Joe’s hand tightens around his own.

                “You need something?” Ned asks, voice laced with concern.  Joe doesn’t open his eyes; he simply shakes his head against the pillow.

                “Thank you.”


End file.
